


Something Holy (This Way Comes)

by Angels_Blade_Demons_Knife_1402



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha John Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom Dean, Dark Dean Winchester, Demonic Powers, Fertility Issues, Forced Abortion, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Dean, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Hell, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 15:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14405340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angels_Blade_Demons_Knife_1402/pseuds/Angels_Blade_Demons_Knife_1402
Summary: Being an Alpha means getting picked first, being tough and mean and unchallenged in authority. Being a Beta means making the view from either sides be seen and understood, being level-headed and calm. Being a Omega means being soft, a reward after a long chase, a home-maker and a breeder. Means nesting, being harnessed by biology. Dean hates all of it.(A/B/O dynamics where Dean was made sterile in the aftermath of Hell and what, exactly, that entails. Read the trigger warnings - rape and torture mentioned and described. Dark fic in some parts. Dean is Not Okay.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's one chapter for now, I'm not sure if I'll add more or not.

The first thing Dean does after digging himself out of the ground, out of a coffin, after calling Bobby and promptly getting hung up on, is find a gas station, drink three bottles of water in quick succession, and take some goddamn supressants. He's carrying his scent around like a red flag, and it makes the back of his throat tingle wtih the urge to gag.Any Alpha to come across it will go for his jugular first and ask questions later - any Omega to come across it will projectile vomit in seconds. 

Gas station suppressants aren't the greatest, but he takes the box anyway and goes into the bathroom. The little scent patches and pills won't change how he feels - the way his biological code positively screams in protest of his very existence, of what Hell has robbed him of - but it will keep his scent neutral. He'll be safe - or at least, as safe as he can be, given the circumstances. And really, that's all he needs. 

Dean locks himself in the bathroom with the small box, generic labeling printed across it in bright purple and white lettering, and tries to ignore the way his hands tremble. He can smell his scent in the small room, the way it fills the air in seconds, and it sends a chill down his spine. He pulls up his t-shirt to look at his abdomen, the skin unmarred and toned. It makes him sick, to look and see not one single piece of evidence of what happened. Even worse, it makes him remember. 

_"There's more than one way to break an Omega, Dean. If pain won't do it, maybe **this** will."_

_Knot after knot, ripping through him, shredding his skin, making him howl with agony. Teeth biting down and drawing blood right over his pulsepoint, a mockery of a bond bite, red streams running down shoulderblades and calves, over wrists and knees, covering his mouth and dripping off his jawline, hi lips. Screams tearing their way out of his throat before he can clench his teeth down on them and lock them inside, sobs and tears and snot and spit fluing as he begs, "please, God, no more. Someone help me! SAM!"_

_The speed of time passing in blurs of pain, metals hooks in him - hanging him on the Rack like a sack of meat in a butcher's room, the stretch of skin over a living soul, the cry of life suddenly cut off. Omeha instincts begging to fight for a body that no longer breathed, teeth clenched so tight they creaked, hands balled till nails bleh onto his skin. Guttural screams with more fury and pain than humanity could possibly allow._

_Black eyes, flickering between human and demon._

_Breed him, birth him, make him watch as the life fades. R_ _epeat._

_Again, and again, and again._

_Will you say yes now, Dean? Do you want off the Rack now? Come on, baby, you just have to say yes. Don't make this harder than it has to be._

Dean blinks, brings himself back to the gas station, to here and now just in time to lunge for the toilet and heave, feeling empty and aching and sick and wrong, breathes past the nausea as he vomits up the water he drank and things he's sure he has never eaten, and tries not to gag at his own scent again.

After, he cleans his mouth and looks down at where his hands are gripping the porcelain sink with white knuckles and licks his lips unsteadily, breathes deep through his mouth once more and then kicks back into movement, picking up the box and peeling the tab open. He pops two of the small white pills into his mouth and swallows them dry, pressing the scent patches to his neck and wrists, watching them change colors to blend seamlessly to his skin.

No one would ever know the difference.

His shoulder burns, white-hot and searing, and he itches at absently before flinching and hissing at the tender feeling of raised skin against the fabric of his t-shirt. Swearing shakily, he peels the clothing from his sweat-damp skin to reveal an angry red handprint, a perfect brand in the shape of someone grabbing him. He stares at it in disbelief. 

What the  _fuck?_


	2. Chapter 2

It starts when Bobby throws holy water at him.

He's proud, admittedly, that he has to prove himself before he believes it's really him - the words don't matter, not until Bobby has physical evidence. And Dean - he takes the knife and rolls up his sleeve - he hesitates, just for a split-second, because he's not completely sure, can't be sure if he came back whole - but the silver blade hurt like it should have and nothing more. He feels the blood drip down his arm, can smell the iron in the air, but none of it matters when Bobby grabs him. His arms wrap tight around the hunter and Dean lets it happen, hugs the Alpha back just as hard. Bobby's scent is mingled with worry and relief and _familysafeprotectprotect **protect**_ , and Dean takes a breath and relaxes just a bit, thinking _it's finally over._

And then the holy water gets thrown in his face and it... _itches_. He doesn't feel it enough to react, but it does leave a bad taste in his mouth when he spits it to the side, a light irritation on his skin, and Dean adds it to the list of things that make him sick to his stomach. What the _fuck_ is going _on_ with him?

"I'm not a demon either, you know."

But then again, he's not too sure he can say he's completely human either.

*~*~*~*~*

Sam is  _touchy_ when he finds out Dean is alive. He opens the door and sees them and freezes, taking in lungfuls of air - and then he lunges.

He pulls the blonde into a bone-crushing hug, tucks his nose into the corner where neck meets shoulder and inhales, scenting him at his pulse, tip of nose brushing his suppressant patch, and the older goes still. _For God's sake, little brother, **don't** smell anything, **please**._

" _Dean_ ," Sam is saying, just hint of whine there in that word, complaint in the fact that can't breathe Dean's real scent in like he wants to, and his voice shakes like an earthquake. "I thought you were _dead_." His scent is all around him, thick and woody and fresh, tinged with worry and relief and _thankgodfamilysafe_. Dean chokes on it all, instincts screaming _Alphawrongnonotfamilywrongtoocloseescaperun **goaway**_ , and is quick to pull back and pull in a breath of clear air. It doesn't go unnoticed. His brother sniffs and composes himself, frowning at him. "Dean?"

"Sammy," Dean returns, hiding his shaking hands in his leather jacket. Sam's scent is wrong, off-kilter. There's an underlying layer of sulfur or iron or something there that isn't him. it's dark and violating and it makes Dean's hackles go up and he has no idea why. What bothers him more is that he can smell it at all. He shouldn't be able to scent any of that. "Listen, just this once - don't ask. _Please_."

His brother studies him, worry etching itself between his eyes and dragging his lips into a frown, but then nods just once, message understood. "Alright," he says. 

*~*~*~*~*

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Sam asks, shivering slightly. The sun is just barely coming up, and it's chilly outside her room, a full two halls away from his own.

Ruby raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest. "You changing your mind already, Sam?" She tilts her head. 

"No! I'm doing a lot of good here, and I'm getting stronger, I don't want to stop - I just - Dean got the suppressants for a reason, is all. I don't know if I should be..." He shifts uncomfortably. "I don't want to lose him again. I know how angry he'll get when he figures out I took them and tossed them. I used to do it as a kid, to piss off my dad and show him that an Omega could fight just as well as any Alpha. Not that it ever worked."

She hums, then holds out a hand. "Cute story. Now hand them over, so we can get this part over with and then we can focus on you. Dean is hiding something and this will stop it. But you, Sam, need to remember what I'm really here for."

Later, when his lips are clasped to her wrist and he's drinking steadily, she'll pet his hair and tell him, " _it's for the best,_ " and he'll believe her, because Ruby has always had his best interests in mind. The guilt, though, won't leave him alone either way.

*~*~*~*~*

_He didn't last long enough to get saved before he took up the knife._

_Alastair watched him with his white eyes, a cheshire grin on his face when Dean did something particularly innovative with his tools, laughing when the victim cried. Dean wasn't able to hide the tears at first, long strings of 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry' the only noises past the screams - but then he stopped crying, and then he stopped apologizing, and then he started smiling. He was giddy off the relief of not having it done to himself, high off the feeling of being untouchable, and he reveled in it._

_Because, then, it was his turn to hurt. His turn to cut and pull - his turn to torment._

_"Good boy, Dean," Alastair purred, just once. And Dean looked at him, grinned, and his eyes flashed black._

_"Thank you, Master."_

*~*~*~*~*

Dean wakes up choking on a shout, arm curled as tight as it possibly can around his stomach, which feels so goddamn _empty_ it _hurts_. Alpha scent in thick in his nose and there's someone hovering above him, and _they can't have him, not again, not this time, he earned his freedom_. 

Something shifts behind his eyes and then it's just Sam, his little brother, with his hand on Dean's shoulder, bent slightly in concern. It's morning, light outside, even. "Dean," he says, eyes wide. "You were dreaming. You were shouting. Are you - are you okay?"

"Get off me," Dean snarls, eyes wild and teeth bared, and bolts for the bathroom. He heaves up nothing - _again_ , Jesus he's _already_ tired of getting sick - and sits on the cold linoleum floor, sweating and shaking and visions of _bloodbonefleshchains_ dancing behind his eyes. eyes catch on the patch on his wrist, and he pushes past the visions to get some sanity. They're faded, a countdown appearing on the center. _**15m.**_ " _Fuck_." Not enough time to go get some form the gas station even. He stumbles back into the hotel room and digs through the gray duffel bag. 

Except they aren't there.

"Where are my suppressants?" He asks, voice just slightly higher than it really should be. "I need to change them out."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam replies as he tugs on a t-shirt, but his gaze is dodgy and he fidgets slightly and that - _wrongwrongwrong_ \- scent is stronger than before. Dean throws down the bag and whirls at him, hysteria building, because he _knows_ where this is going to go and it scares him to think about it. Sam's going to smell it and his hormones are going to go into high drive. About how he's going to want to rip Dean apart and that Dean won't be able to stop it.

"We doin' this shit already, little brother?" Dean asks, sharp and stiff and angry. "You took 'em away, didn't you?" He's wild now, frantic, almost clear to panic. "What are we, ten? When has this ever worked out for you, little brother? We ain't kids anymore, man! I need those damn patches for a reason! Quit fucking with me!"

"Why?" Sam asks, just as fierce. "Why do you need _scent suppressants_ , Dean? You haven't used them since after Dad died, and those were heat suppressants! Why now?"

Dean just growls and grabs his jacket. "I swear to God, Sam, this is low even for you," he spits, and his brother cringes.

"Dean, where are you going?" He asks.

"To a fucking clinic, where else?" The hunter snarls  and slams the door behind him.

*~*~*~*~*

He smells him before he gets there, just a quick whiff of a storm before it hits and mint, and then -

"Sam doesn't know, does he?"

Dean swears, swerving in the street and throwing a glare to the passenger seat. "God damn it, don't do that!" He snaps. He's hurting already, phantom pains of his stomach being stretched. The angel next to him rolls his eyes. 

"Does he know?" He asks again and Dean sighs.

"Look, I don't know what game you're playing, but this really isn't any of your business, angel of the Lord," he sneers. "It's bad enough you know what the fuck happened. Don't talk about it."

"You have to talk to someone, Dean," Castiel tells him. "You do remember Hell - I can see it still in your memories. Why do you hide it?"

"Why do I - Jesus Christ, you honestly don't get it, do you?" His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "What happened to me -you don't talk about that kind of shit, man. Ever. You deal with it on your own time, at your own risk. Okay? And to be really fucking honest here, I'm still not sure what exactly they did to me down there." He swallows. "I just know I'm not fucking normal."

Quiet. "Would you like to find out?" Castiel asks, slowly like it's not something he wants to offer. Dean swallows. 

"You can do that?" He asks, and the angel nods. The hunter says nothing, chewing his cheek.

"Think about it, Dean. I can help you. You just have to let me." 

When Dean looks again, a few minutes later, the angel is gone. In the passenger seat instead is a box of clinic-level scent suppressants. 


	3. Chapter 3

After the fiasco with his brother throwing away his suppressants, Dean decides to go solo on the next hunt Bobby throws their way. It's only later the same day, but it's still not quick enough. He needs away from him now, yesterday, before this morning. Something's not right with his little brother, and Dean's going to drive himself crazy trying to figure out exactly what the hell that is if he can't get away and think without him breathing down his next.   
  
"Come on. You can't be serious," Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. Dean shoots him a sharp look as he puts his clothes into his bag. Defensively, the younger of the two holds up his hands and tells him, "I'm not saying you _can't do it._ Jesus, Dean, I'm just saying you should have some backup with you. Solo hunts are twice as dangerous as usual. A lot could go wrong."  
  
"I think I can handle one measly little witch hunt on my own," Dean snaps. He's rattled from the close call with his suppressants, a little on edge from the discussion with Castiel. "And honestly, I'm not in a place to be around someone who takes my stuff to prove a fucking point." He doesn't even pause, even if his hands twitch at the mention. The smell still lingers in the air, something vile under Sam's real scent, and it's making him want to claw at the walls.  
  
Sam recoils. "I just want to know what's going on with you!" He says. "You're different, Dean, and you won't talk to me about anything anymore."  
  
Dean turns his head just enough to meet his gaze. "What do you _expect_ me to talk about? Being in Hell for forty years?" he asks flatly. "Remembering being ribboned by hellhounds right before waking up in a pine coffin and digging my way out from six feet under? Finding out that the only reason I'm back at all is because an angel has a need for me? Fuck off, Sam." He shoulders his bag. "Tell Bobby to call me with details."

*~*~*~*

Dean has always hated witches. The bodily fluids, the using magic - or whatever the fuck you want to call it - to warp everything to fit to them, it all rubs him the wrong way. This job was supposed simple- get in, kill the witch, get out. No problem. No fireworks, no big deal. Run-of-the-mill witch hunt, right?  
  
Yeah, it doesn't end up happening that way. Dean doesn't remember anything past picking the door open and walking in with his gun drawn and held low. All he knows is he wakes up with a throbbing headache, on his knees and unable to move in the middle of the apartment living room. There's no rope holding him; just an invisible force making him paralyzed.  
  
"You know, I've heard a lot about you, Dean Winchester," a woman says and enters his fuzzy vision. Blonde hair tied up in a curly ponytail, blue eyes sharp on him. "Gotta say, you're even more scrumptious in person. Though, I am a little disappointed that you were this easy. I expected a little more of a challenge. I didn't even have to try that hard to catch you. Looks like your reputation proceeds you."  
  
"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks from clenched teeth, shaking his head to try and clear the ringing from his ears and get his eyes to focus. He's not completely aware, not like a hunter should be, but he still feels a chill down his spine and multiple sets of eyes on him. The hair on the back of his stands on end. He _knows_ that feeling.  
  
Oh fuck. _Ohfuckohfuckohfuck_. He casts a look around the room, counting at least five shadowed figures. Great hulking masses of muscles and claws and teeth, saliva dripping to the floor. Blurred shapes that shift under his gaze, just enough to show hints of what they truly look like but not enough to look solid. Dean doesn't need a reminder - he's seen them enough already, has had forty years worth of their images stuck in his brain. The smell of sulfur is thick in his nose, clogging his throat. Even _his_ fucked up instincts are screaming for him to get the fuck out of here.  
  
Hellhounds. A whole goddamn pack of them. He's _screwed_.   
  
_Castiel, if you can hear me, get your fluffy-winged ass over here and come get me! **Now**!!_  
  
"Well, if you're coming to kill me, don't you think you should already know the answer to that?" She asks, head tilted. "Or are you just another handsome, clueless bloodhound baying for a kill?"  
  
"Oh believe me, honey, you wish I was," Dean replies with a forced smirk , and tries to swallow past the shiver when he feels a hellhound breathe down his neck.   
  
_I pray to Castiel to get his ass down right now_.  
  
"Careful baby, I'd love to cut that tongue out of your mouth," the witch - her name is Rebecca, his brain supplies - purrs and runs a hand down the beast's back. Her eyes coast down his frame hungrily. "Mmm. I can smell your Omega hormones a mile away. How long's it been since you took a knot, precious?"  
  
Dean goes from victim to survivor in point-two seconds, snarling like a caged animal, straining against whatever she has holding him on his knees. The sound is barely human. "Don't you fucking dare, you bitch."   
  
_Cas, **please**._  
  
She raises an eyebrow and grins. "Oh don't worry, Dean. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging for it." Her eyes flash dangerously and Dean fades back into unconsciousness before he has time to pray to the angel again.

*~*~*~*  
  
The heat takes him by storm.  
  
Dean comes back to awareness shaking and sweating, a soft string of _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ coming out of his mouth before he can stop it, arms wrapped tight against his stomach, knees drawn up high, teeth clenched against the urge to scream. There's no type of suppressants to help with this, not this time. He's painfully empty, and he aches hard and hollow, feeling nauseous and dizzy, overheated and _craving_ to be filled so much that his blood sings with it. His entire body hates him for it and _God_ , he wants to die. He cant move, can't think, can't speak. He just _exists_ in this plane of sick and heat-crazed.  
  
_Please, someone fucking kill me_ , he thinks, prays, and then he smells _him_ , stormy air and mint and something else just under the surface, and his mouth actually _waters_ , his chest aches with the urge to have him _close._   _Fuck_. The sound of feathers rustling makes something twinge low in his gut and he whines before he even knows what he's doing, something primal and instinctual responding just to his presence here with need.  
  
" _Dean, hold on,_ " he thinks he might hear past the roaring in his ears, and recoils, panting hot and thick. His entire body throbs as it wars with itself. The urge to tear himself apart versus the urge to spread and let the angel take him here and now. _AlphaAlphaAlphamateclaimminethreatdangersickwrongno._ A snarl - hellhound, most definitely - and grunting, and Dean cringes, wants to get up and fight and can't. He's paralyzed, stuck between wanting and having and tearing himself to shreds, claw his skin raw and bloody and burn himself alive. Half-crazed and blind with fever and heat-lust, he thinks, _Alpha, help me._

There's a crash, a muffled shotgun going off, things shattering, light so very bright against his eyelids. There's bile rising in his stomach and he can't focus and then there's a hand on his shoulder, right over that red branded hand-print, and it's _wrongviolatingnoit'snothimwrong_ **no** and Dean's vision whites out and then he _screams_.

*~*~*~*

_No one will mention this, but there's more than one way to make a demon._

_In Hell, Dean watched angry pink skin burn into black smoke and green eyes turn red and his heart shattered repeatedly. What could he have ever done to deserve this?_

_(The first hurt the most. All the others blurred into each other but the first..he never forgets **her**.)_

*~*~*~*


End file.
